


Daily Special

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Glimpses of the Heart [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bakery and Coffee Shop, F/F, POV First Person, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 10:37:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13568820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Molly Hooper has an admirer.





	Daily Special

   Right. Today's the day. When she comes in here I'll say something. Hello, even. Hello is lame, but it's still a better start than, what can I get you? Besides, I know what I can get her... A large soy mocha, half-caff. Sometimes a scone or a cookie if she's indulging. 

   As I count out the till and start taking chairs down from the tables, Maneet brings trays of baked goods out of the back, and Henry, the owner's nephew, begins brewing drip coffee for the patrons who don't want specialty drinks. Taking the print out of the day's specials from Len as he drifts out front before disappearing upstairs for the rest of the morning, I lay the large menu board on the counter and pop open the pencil box full of chalkboard markers. This is literally the best part of my work day, getting to lose myself in fifteen minutes of writing Caesar Salade a lá grilled chicken, and Iced Peach-Raspberry Tea, and Lemon Sponge in my best calligraphy and squeezing in a few clever drawings and maybe a quote. The regulars seem to find my art and my quotes charming, although Len thinks they're a waste of time. He's practically indestinguishable from my dad, who also  thinks my art is useless. 

   Correction: it's the best part of my day after her. She used to come in once or twice a week. But over the last few months she comes in every day, right at 7:15 and has a large soy mocha, half-caff, and sometimes a scone or a cookie. She's seemed...stressed...lately, and a little sad. Despite her sadness, she always smiles at me and says, "Have a nice day!" as if she actually means it.

   Nearly six months of working the morning shift just so I can see her, and I haven't yet gotten tired of that toss-away phrase. I also haven't managed the courage to say more than a lame "you as well," in response. Some mornings I psych myself up to finally, finally chat her up a bit. Nothing skeevy...just. Ask her what she does for a living. Or offer her a sample of the latest special blend. Tell her I like her hair (she has such beautiful hair).

   These are the things I know about her: her name is Molly, she's a vegetarian, she works at St. Bart's (I've seen the badge but I don't know what she does there.) Her favorite colour is pink, she sings under her breath while digging through her bag for her wallet, and she donates money to RSPCA (her bag is one of the giveaways they give you if you donate over £100- I know, I've got one as well). Molly's best friend is named Meena, she's not dating anyone, and she's over "him," whoever him is. I only heard her half of the conversation with Meena while she was on her mobile and I was clearing tables. 

   So maybe she isn't queer, but then again maybe she's bi, or pan. There's at least a statistical chance that if I were to ask her out she wouldn't say no just because I'm female. I'm actually more worried that she'd say no because I work as a barista, because at twenty-six I still haven't finished uni- although that's down to me having to support myself and pay my own way- because I'm about ten years younger than her. But if I think about those things I'll never bring myself to ask her out,so I try not to think about them. 

   During those mid-mornings when traffic has died down and Henry's faffing about up in Len's office, while Maneet texts her boyfriend and updates her Snap Chat, I pretend to work on my uni courses. Usually I just draw her and daydream about having her as my girlfriend. It would be so lovely to walk through Camden Town, explore the market a bit. Go to a film, or to one of the pubs for a drink and to hear one of the tiny groups that play live.

   And I dream about taking her home (in my dreams I don't have five flatmates and share a bedroom). I dream about slowly taking her layers off...kissing her smiling lips, her dimples, her smooth skin, her delicate breasts...I think about Molly's breathless laughter and her small, competent hands touching me and I go absolutely dizzy with longing. I want to get to know her. Not just her body (although I want to know that as well- does she have any tattoos? Does she shave? Are her toenails painted? Does the whiff of rose sachet I've caught from her before tangle itself in her hair? Is she ticklish?) I want to know what books she's read and the type of music that makes her smile when she's having a shitty day. I want to find out if Molly and I have anything in common besides a love for animals and the colour pink and a fondness for chocolate chips cookies, if we enjoy the same films...if she thinks of me as anything other than the barista with pink hair and roses inked on her shoulder who brings her "free samples" on the rare days she sits down at one of the tiny tables and pulls her mobile out of her bag and loses herself in Twitter or Tolstoy or the Daily Mail.

   I want to know her. 

   Yet another anxious glance at the cat clock over the door and I have to make myself go refill all the dispensers with their fiddly packets and stirrers and straws. Unless Molly changes her routine, she'll be here in less than ten minutes. I can't just lean on the counter and stare at the door. 

   A frazzled trio of mums come in, wheeling their giant push chairs and keeping them jiggling in some kind of kinetic motion campaign to soothe their grizzling toddlers. Once I've sorted out what the hell they want, I pull out juices and biscotti and then begin assembling their overly complicated drink orders. I'm still blending a sugar free smoothie when Molly comes in. I see Maneet abandon the table she's cleaning and head toward the counter. I give her a killer look and she falters and then turns away in response to my wildly gesturing eyebrows. Christ.

   Shoving the last of the stupidly complex drinks at the last of the mums- who don't even tip for God's sake- I take a deep breathe and slide into place in front of the till and smile at Molly. "Good morning! What can I get you?"

   Crap. 

   I'm so used to asking the same thing that I forgot I was going to be smooth. Debonair. Can you be debonair with pink hair and a belly ring? Sod it, I'll try.

   "Oh, um--" Molly begins, stammering slightly as always. Even with me, whom she sees every day for a simple order of coffee, she's a bit shy and hesitant; almost alarmed by social interaction. I want to tell her she doesn't have to be scared...I'd never do anything to frighten her. I want to wrap her up in lace and kiss her until she's mindless with love and begs me never to leave the bed.

   "Um... I like your shirt!" Molly blurts, interrupting my daydream and I realize I've been standing and staring witlessly at her. I can feel the blush rising on my face and I seize gratefully at the lifeline, stupidly looking down at myself to see what I'm wearing. Like, I only put it on two hours ago, how have I forgotten? It's not like anyone else dressed me! And I picked this shirt out especially.

   It's pale pink, and in sparkly 8-bit font it reads FILTER COFFEE NOT PEOPLE. I'd dithered over whether or not the tiny slice of belly that was revealed between the hem of the shirt and the waistband of my black men's dress trousers was too racy and young or not. I shouldn't have worried...not since that was the least noticeable thing about my appearance. No, the most noticeable would be my nipples, which are currently erect and making their presence known.

   Fuck me up.

   "I love pink," Molly continued, sounding flustered. I could hardly tell, since I was staring at the counter, fighting humiliation. "It's my favorite- and your hair is gorgeous."

   I looked up at that, at the tone of her voice. Was that...was that flirting I heard?

   Although her face was a lovely shade of her favorite colour, Molly met my eyes, small hands fluttering and then clutching desperately at her bag. "You're so... I mean, I wish I was that..."

   "I think you have beautiful hair," I said, my voice huskier than I wished. Clearing my throat I ignored the new customers coming through the door. Maneet could help them. I was busy. "You're like a princess."

   Even though I immediately wanted to kick myself at the idiocy leaving my mouth, Molly didn't seem to mind. "Oh I...me? No...no." She shook her head, "I'm not-I'm just-and I'm..."

   "Can I buy you a coffee?" I blurt. "Or a scone?" Molly's mouth is opening and I can't bear to hear her say no. I can't bear for her to leave and find some other, anonymous coffee house and for me to never see her again. "A-a drink or a film? I mean, can I take you to see a film?"

   "You?" Molly sounded bewildered. She's biting her lip and I want to tell her that's my job but I'm already afraid she's about to bolt. "You want a-"

   "Date," I supply, giving up subtlety. Someone has a lot to answer for if she doesn't realize how bloody gorgeous she is. I'm about ten seconds away from grabbing the strap of her bag and dragging her in for a kiss. Her brown eyes are bewitching pools and I'm willing to drown. "With you."

   "But I'm," she gestured at herself, then at me, "and you're so- and you don't even know my name-" 

   "Molly," I say out loud for the first time. My heart is ACHING in my chest and Maneet is done with her customer and outright staring at us now. "And I'm-" 

   "Katy," she says, surprising me until I recall my name tag. "I...we don't know one another."

   It's too late, despite what might have been a bit of momentary interest she's withdrawing, pulling away. "I want to get to know you," I say, trying to rein in my unhappiness. If only I'd just kept on mooning over her from afar, then at least I'd still see her every morning. "I-"

   "I've never," she dropped her voice, aware of Maneet gawking at us. "I'm not-" her eyes drop to my wrist, the jumble of pride bracelets, and she whispers, "I'm not like you."

    I don't know if I even say anything in response, I don't really remember leaving the floor, just that the next thing I know I'm in the alley, hyperventilating. All my stupid daydreams are dust, my heart is bleeding and for the first time in ages I feel weak and scared and alone. I've gotten used to the last four years, to living among other lesbians, my friends are all queer, the clubs where I go to meet women are packed with women looking for the same thing. Women who want the same thing.

   I'd let myself forget how it felt to exist outside that safe bubble.

                             ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

  


   Molly hasn't been back in the last three days, and I'm mostly over it. If there's a sore hollow in my chest I steadily ignore it. It will go in time (I remember Year Eleven and Melanie and the intense friendship I mistook for mutual love).

   She won't be back, I know that much. It's for the best, really; I can hardly make her coffee and fetch her scones with this hanging between us. No, I'll be fine once I stop thinking of her, and after a few days my coworkers will stop asking me if I'm alright (having heard all about it from Maneet) and things will return to normal.

   So I'm surprised and upset when a letter comes for me to the coffee shop. It's a card actually. Simply addressed to the coffee shop with C/O KATY below that. I hold the pink envelope with trepidation. After carrying it around all day in my apron pocket I finally open it during my break. No drama, no trying to save the envelope, just rip it open and pull out the card. It's got a cat on, and it's glittery and girly and cute and even as I open it the stupid hope is back.

   There's only one person this could be from and if she's going to the trouble of buying me cute cards then maybe I shouldn't have been eating myself up with regret and despair the last few days. My eyes go straight to the signature (in hot pink felt tip, the gorgeous thing) which loops and swirls but unmistakably spells out Molly. There's a message below her signature. It's a simple request to call her if I can forgive her, followed by her mobile number. 

   Shaking hands make it hard to read, but I manage. I manage. 

   Stray bits flash out at me.

_So sorry... I didn't mean it the way I realize it sounds... I got to work and locked myself in the women's and cried... No one has ever... I'm just Molly- nothing special... But if you still want that date..._

  Even as I reach for my phone I'm planning our first date.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Forgive any typos or formatting issues, I typed this on my phone.


End file.
